


the old story of starting out

by Addison R (beyond_belief)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alfred is basically Bruce's surrogate dad, Bat Family, Gen, Genius Bruce Wayne, Parent Death, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Addison%20R
Summary: Alfred and Bruce, 1981-1988.





	the old story of starting out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DestielsDestiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/gifts).



**1981**

Alfred is a young man when the Wayne family hires him for the summer.

The Wayne Enterprises building is bustling, but Thomas Wayne's office is calm and quiet, all dark wood and frosted glass. An assistant brought them coffee when Alfred first arrived, then retreated. "We'd like you to be more a personal companion for Bruce while he's home, than... nanny - he's a little too old for that," Wayne says dryly, closing the folder with Alfred's references, service record, and a copy of his diplomas from Eton and KCL. 

"I understand that, sir."

Wayne's face creases into seriousness and he leans forward in his chair. "Bruce, well, he's - he's a very smart boy, and to be honest with you his last summer companion could no longer keep up. And then there's the fact that the family has a great deal of money, and Gotham is no stranger to kidnap for ransom."

"Yes, I've kept up with the news," Alfred says, looking at the framed photo on Wayne's large desk, in which a boy he assumes is Bruce is clutching a large telescope that's clearly a Christmas present. "And you've read my records, sir."

"Crichton was clear about that when he recommended you." Wayne settles back, then raises an eyebrow. He's wearing a dark suit, presumably expensive. He's offered a very good salary for a short-term position, and Alfred will be able to do some travelling without worrying about money for quite a while. "I have to ask, Pennyworth. Are you sure this is a job you want to take? There's times you'll be bored, and you're more than qualified for my R&D section."

"I'm not looking to stay in America forever, sir," Alfred replies. "A season is fine with me."

*

Bruce is a quiet but self-assured boy and they get along smashingly that June, July, and August; Alfred teaches Bruce how to play polo on the very nice pair of horses the Waynes board and Bruce teaches him all manner of insect identification that he'd learned his last semester at the Academy. "You're good at this, Alfred," he says, as Alfred carefully glues another _Manduca sexta_ to a pin.

"Thank you, Master Bruce." He nudges Bruce companionably, then hands over the pin. "You're not so bad at it yourself."

Bruce smiles. He presents their completed mounting board to Martha after dinner.

*

When Bruce goes back to the Academy for fall semester, Thomas insists that Alfred work for Wayne Enterprises, "at least for a few months, Pennyworth, and then if you're going to go back to England for certain you can say goodbye to Bruce over the holidays."

Alfred figures he might as well. He can go to China next summer. "That sounds good to me."

Thomas is having his usual after-dinner glass of brandy. He pours one for Alfred and nudges it across the table. "I think Bruce likes you more than anyone else we've ever hired."

Alfred spent most of the summer considering Bruce as a peer, and not a child. The boy is whip smart, curious, and better at tennis than Alfred will ever be. "Not much cause for tennis in the Army," he said once on the court, as Bruce prepared to serve. 

Bruce only laughed. "More wins for me, right?"

"I'm happy to hear that," he tells Thomas now. "Should I find a flat?"

Thomas gives him the _no_ look. Alfred's going to consider himself an expert in reading Wayne expressions at this point, all of them, even Martha. He wonders if he could put that on a resume.

So Alfred joins Lucius Fox in designing gear for infantrymen - ironic, he thinks - and retooling engines in Humvees until Bruce returns to the Manor near the end of December. Bruce seems glad to see him again and pushes a shadowbox with a large _Everes comyntas_ mounted inside into Alfred's hands.

The second night Bruce is back, Martha suggests they go see a movie after dinner. Alfred is sketching some components for Lucius and declines the invitation. Bruce looks wistfully at the sketchbook - Alfred has been explaining as he goes along - but doesn't argue with his mother, and Alfred knows from their earlier discussions that Bruce is looking forward to seeing _Excalibur_.

Alfred helps them all into their coats and waves as they head for the garage. It's the last time he sees Thomas and Martha alive.

*

He's the one to find Bruce at the police station, pale and hunched in on himself with his arms around his knees, in a chair too large for him next to Officer Gordon's desk. He crouches in front of the boy, touches his arm gently. There's blood on the leg of Bruce's trousers. Alfred tries to hide his shudder. He says, "I'm here, Bruce. Are you hurt?"

Bruce shakes his head and launches himself into Alfred's arms, crying so hard it must hurt, his entire body shaking. Alfred has to swallow back his own tears. _Shot in the street, mugged_ , Officer Gordon said on the phone, while Alfred stood in the kitchen with the receiver clutched tightly in his hand, trying not to shake. _And Bruce saw the whole thing._

"We'll find who did this," Gordon says now as Alfred stands, picking up Bruce to carry him out to the car. "I promise you, kid."

Bruce is quiet and dazed, completely cried out, as Alfred tucks him into the Mercedes and buckles the seatbelt. "We'll be home soon," he murmurs, stroking a hand over Bruce's head. 

Bruce's hand grips his jacket. "Will you stay?"

Alfred has no idea if that is feasible, who will take Bruce, if there are relatives. Surely there must be relatives. What would he even do with an eight year-old boy? What does he know about parenting? 

"Of course I'll stay."

*

There's no one.

There's a will, of course; Thomas and Martha each have one. And there's a team of lawyers, all of whom shake hands with Bruce and then with Alfred. Their faces are solemn. Bruce inherits everything. 

One of the lawyers passes Alfred an envelope. On the front it has his name in Thomas' handwriting, and on the back there's a date across the sealed part. October. He tucks it reverently into his inner jacket pocket; he'll read it later when he's alone. "Thank you."

"You'll stay with me, right?" Bruce asks, turning to look at Alfred with his eyes wide and his face pale. He's always pale. He's too young for what he's been thrust into, Alfred thinks. They all are.

"Of course, Master Wayne."

Bruce shakes his head fiercely. "That's what you called my dad."

Alfred swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "I won't leave, Master Bruce. I promise."

The oldest and most grey-haired of the lawyers clears his throat. "If we could return to the arrangements, Sirs; there are funeral details that need to be finalized."

*

At the funeral, Bruce runs. Alfred calls after him but doesn't actually expect Bruce to come back, and Bruce knows the grounds like the back of his hand, so Alfred doesn't need to worry about him getting lost. Bruce just needs to be alone. Away from the crowd of people with solemn faces and stilted murmurings of sympathy, as if they don't know quite what to say to Bruce but feel they should say something anyway.

He goes looking for the boy after the internment has finished and finds him sitting at the base of a tree, not very far into the woods that make up a large part of the estate. "Is it over?" Bruce asks, his head pillowed on his drawn-up knees, his face turned to look at Alfred. There's a streak of dirt on his cheek.

"Yes."

Bruce is quiet for a long moment. His eyes are red-rimmed. "Aren't you cold?" Alfred asks softly, crouching down and reaching out to rub Bruce's shoulder.

"A little."

"Come with me back to the house. I'll make you a cup of cocoa. I need one, too."

"Are all the people gone?" Bruce asks, shivering as a particularly strong wind shakes the branches above them.

"Yes."

Bruce sniffs, then wipes at his face with the back of one cold hand. "Will you put marshmallows in it?"

Alfred takes a deep breath. "As many as we can fit in the mug."

 

**1982**

"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Headmistress Anderly, I'm afraid I'm calling about Bruce again."

Alfred's stomach sinks. The headmistress of Bruce's school has called him three times since January. The first time, Bruce had refused to complete a family tree assignment, an issue the school was not _not_ sympathetic about, but the administration felt Alfred should be made aware. 

The second and third times, Bruce had gotten in a fight with an older boy, who had apparently said - things. Both times the older boy had given Bruce a black eye. No one had outright said the word bullying, but Alfred felt it was implied. The headmistress said the staff would do their best to keep them apart. 

He's guessing now that they weren't able to do that. Tiredly, he asks, "Did he fight the Wilson boy again?"

"Bruce pushed him down a flight of stairs. After some words were exchanged, according to the other students who witnessed it." She pauses briefly. Alfred can hear the noise of the school in the background. "You'll have to come pick him up, Mr, Pennyworth. This was his third fight of the semester. Bruce cannot stay here."

Alfred wants to ask if the other boy has also been expelled, but he also doesn't want to grind with anger if the answer is no. "I'll leave Gotham immediately."

"I'll be sure to have Bruce's things ready." The headmistress disconnects. 

Alfred looks around his small office in the basement of the main Wayne Enterprises building, the blueprints and diagrams piled on his desk. So far in his guardianship of Bruce, he hasn't had to do much parenting, thanks to the boarding school. 

Seems like that's about to change. Well, perhaps it's for the better.

"Alfred?" Lucius asks from the doorway, and Alfred looks up at Lucius standing there in his rolled-up sleeves, jacket long abandoned in favor of the lab apron he wears. His expression is one of concern. "You okay?"

"I have to go pick Bruce up from school. He's been expelled," Alfred says, finally jolted into movement. He gets his own jacket, coat, and scarf from the rack. "I hate to leave you with everything, but I very much doubt I'll be back today. Or this week."

Lucius claps him on the shoulder. "I think I can cover everything. Go see to Bruce. I hope he's alright."

Alfred is fairly certain he's going to be picking up a pale and angry boy who will curl against the door of the car and refuse to look at him the whole drive back to Gotham. He adjusts his scarf to be a little tighter around his neck. "Thanks, Lucius."

*

In the headmistress' office, Bruce's face is indeed angry behind the book he's reading, or pretending to read. There are two suitcases next to him. He looks up at Alfred and his eyes widen slightly, like he hadn't really expected to be expelled, or Alfred to actually show up.

"You can tell me on the way home," Alfried hurries to say before Bruce can speak. "Are there things I need to sign?" he asks Anderly.

Out at the car - he drove the dark BMW out of some sort of attempt to show that Bruce needed the Academy less than the Academy needs Wayne money, or something - he puts Bruce's suitcases in the small trunk.

Bruce has buckled himself into the passenger seat, The Once and Future King held carefully on his lap. "Shall I tell you the ending?" Alfred asks as he guides the car away from the curb.

"No," Bruce says sullenly, and Alfred can't help but chuckle.

"There's lemonade in here for you." He touches the thermos in the cup holder. "I made it myself."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce's baffled expression. "Margaret didn't make it for you?"

"Margaret is mostly working with the corporation's kitchens these days."

Bruce is quiet a moment. "Who makes you dinner?"

"I make it."

"You know how to _cook_?"

The incredulity in Bruce's voice makes him laugh again. "Yes." He slows, then stops for the red light. "Alright, how about you tell me what happened at school?"

He's not looking at Bruce but the boy's squirm is hard to miss. "I pushed Teddy Wilson down the dormitory stairs."

"That much I knew," Alfred says, as calm as possible. He doubts Bruce is easily spooked these days, but if he's going to have to homeschool Bruce, the last thing he needs is for Bruce to be angry at him in addition to being angry at the world. "The question is, why?"

Bruce's shaky breath is audible in the quiet of the car. "He calls me 'orphan' all the time. Instead of my name. He said - he said I had to live at school because I didn't have anyplace else to live, and he's mean to the other kids, too. He always picks on the kids he's bigger than, and - and he hits anyone who tries to stop him."

That explain the black eyes. "You stood up to him."

Bruce nods minutely. "I got between him and Burt Mayer, who's only seven. Teddy always tries to pick on him because he's the smallest, and -"

"I'm proud of you, Master Bruce," Alfred interrupts.

Bruce sits up straight in the seat. "What? Why? Headmistress Anderly said you would be disappointed in me."

Alfred resolves to call the Headmistress when they're back in Gotham and inquire about this Wilson boy. "You stood up to a bully and protected another student, and I would never be disappointed in you for that. However…"

Bruce's eyes are wide. "What?"

"I _will_ be disappointed if you don't help me in the kitchen."

 

**1988**

Since becoming Bruce's guardian, Alfred's only done the occasional project for Wayne Enterprises, usually at Lucius' specific request. Tonight he's looking at schematics for a modified assault rifle - on paper it looks good, but Lucius reports the prototype guys are getting a weird vibration in the grip - with the drawings spread all over the dining room table. Bruce is visible from where he's working, in the sitting room on a sofa, reading packets that various colleges have been sending since he took the SAT early a few months ago.

Colleges, offering early admission, special packages. Because Bruce is _fifteen_.

Alfred knows he's no slouch in the academic department, but Bruce surpassed him more than a year ago. Thankfully, Wayne Enterprises employs a large number of PhDs, almost all of whom were happy to tutor Bruce in various subjects. Alfred would wager Bruce now knows more computer programming, chemistry, and biology than he'll ever manage to learn. 

He won't let anyone but Alfred talk about engineering. 

"Master Bruce," Alfred calls now, amused at the horrified expression Bruce is aiming at the booklet he's reading. "What did Metropolis City University ever do to you?"

" _Exist_ ," Bruce says, dropping the booklet like it's on fire. 

Bruce is often a jerk but Alfred's been assured that it comes with the age. He does his best not to smile, though. "Surely they can't be that bad."

Bruce narrows his eyes and goes back to his brochures. Alfred shakes his head minutely and returns to his schematics. After a few minutes, Bruce slides into the chair next to his. "Did you finish your calculus assignment?" Alfred asks, as Bruce tries to look at the blueprints without looking like he's looking.

"After I finished o-chem but before I read the rest of Heart of Darkness."

Alfred slides the schematics over so Bruce can look. "Are we still going hunting this weekend?" Bruce asks, fingertips tracing the lines of the rifle, his head bent over the paper.

"If the weather holds."

Alfred began instructing Bruce how to handle a firearm when he turned fourteen, when Bruce asked how old he'd have to be to get a hunting license. "You want to go hunting, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, lowering the journal he was reading as they sat by the fireplace after dinner, while Bruce did his assignments. 

Bruce looked conflicted for a moment. "It's not that we need to hunt to survive," he said, and Alfred nodded. "But what if one day I have to?"

"You're expecting a nuclear winter or the like?" Alfred asked, keeping his tone mild. He was no stranger to Bruce's odd requests to learn things that seemed unrelated to anything else he was learning, but there were times he wondered if Bruce wasn't compiling the strange skill sets on purpose. 

Bruce shook his head quickly and dark hair covered his eyes for a moment. "I hope not!" 

"Well." Alfred lifted the journal again. "This weekend we'll begin to cover firearm safety."

Now, Bruce gives him an amused sideways glance. "Isn't our gear rated all-weather?" he asks, like he doesn't know.

" _I'm_ not rated all-weather, Master Bruce," Alfred grumbles. 

"You're only thirty-six!"

"And that's sixty in 'dealing with Bruce' years."

Bruce only rolls his eyes and gets up from the table. "I want to show you my crossbow prototype, let me go get it."

"Wouldn't it be easier for me to come down to the workshop?" Alfred calls after him. Although if Bruce is bringing it upstairs, the crossbow must fit in the creaky old lift. 

"With your knees?" Bruce yells back, and Alfred has to admit he left himself wide open for that one.

*

Alfred is in his small Wayne Enterprises workshop, goggles on, soldering iron in hand, when Bruce knocks lightly on the door and steps in, carrying a thick folder. Alfred keeps working as Bruce slides around the table, remaining at a careful distance, and watches until Alfred's finished welding the circuits in place. The smell of melted metal hangs heavy in the air for a moment, then Bruce flicks the switch for the exhaust fan.

Alfred lifts the goggles off his face. "Master Bruce, finished with Dr. Kirkland so soon?"

"I need to talk to you." 

Bruce looks even more serious than usual and he's holding the folder to his chest, so Alfred tugs off his heavy gloves and wipes his sweaty hands on a towel before leaning against the workbench. "What is it?"

"I've made a decision about where I'd like to go to school," Bruce starts, his voice sort of hesitant. Then he squares his shoulders and his face hardens in the way Alfred sees when Bruce is explaining his research or prototypes to other Wayne Enterprises scientists, or the time he had to go before the Gotham school board to justify his homeschooling. It's an expression Alfred almost never sees on Bruce at home. 

"Go on."

Bruce extends the folder. 

Alfred settles at his desk and reads through the information packet, the early acceptance letter, the brochures for housing and the brochures for several majors, mostly in the sciences. Finally he raises his gaze to Bruce's. "Are you certain?"

Bruce nods, the same expression still on his face.

"Well…" Alfred lets the moment drag out, to see if Bruce will grow apprehensive, but the look on Bruce's face doesn't change. He knows there's nothing he can say now that will change Bruce's mind, no argument will dissuade him, no matter that he's only fifteen. 

It's then that Alfred is forced to admit that Bruce grew up years ago. _Age is only a number._

He puts the brochures back into the folder. "Be sure to write so I know you're alive, all right?"

*

Bruce sends two letters a month, at first. _Dear Alfred -_ , dutifully, outlining his classes and his (also a teenage genius) roommate, and the resident advisor who's been assigned to look after them both.

After a few months, the letters start to include _I miss you_ , and a small part - that grows larger every day - of Alfred hopes Bruce will decide to come home. 

He doesn't.

Bruce starts to write less frequently, but the letters are longer, full of details about the martial arts club he's joined, and the projects he's working on for his engineering classes, sometimes including a few sketches. Alfred admits - to himself - that he likes these letters the best, because it gives him something to do, researching whatever it is and writing back to Bruce with the occasional suggestion.

The house is lonely. _Dear Master Bruce_ , he writes in reply. _Pleased to hear of your winning bouts. Your father was also a decent boxer - I do remember a time he nearly broke my nose. Bled like the devil._

_Gotham has been, for the most part, quiet. I see Lt. Gordon on occasion._

_We've begun doing repairs on the Manor - the oldest part of the roof caved in on the attic during a storm a few weeks ago, so I've moved some things into storage for you to look at when you're home. Nothing major was damaged, but I've got a crew in now doing assessments._

Alfred pauses there, not sure how to express his sadness at watching parts of the manor - old before Alfred even came to America, but suffused with memories of Thomas and Martha - start to fall apart, or if he even wants to say such things to Bruce.

_I bring flowers to your parents once a week just as we always have._

_And lastly, if you haven't found it already, there is an article on bioreceptors in last month's Biotechnology Process you may be interested in._

He signs his name, then gives the ink a moment to dry. The letter feels too short and part of Alfred wants to write more, but there's little else to share from the last few weeks. Alfred goes to the workshop and helps Lucius; he returns home to the empty Manor and does his best to keep it as it once was until Bruce can decide what he wants to do with it.

He folds the paper carefully and starts to slide it into the envelope before remembering there is something else he can add. _PS, I understand if you don't want to come home for the holidays, but I hope that you do._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from David Weiss' "Closing Time", as published in the December 1981 edition of Poetry Magazine.


End file.
